


An Obvious Fact

by apliddell



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: A Scandal In Belgravia, Banter, Doctor John, Domestic Johnlock, Friends to Lovers, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Miscommunication, Resolved Sexual Tension, Sick Fic, Texting, Unresolved Sexual Tension, domestic pre-johnlock, irene adler is a LESBIAN, let's have no more of that silliness, sherlock holmes is gay, violin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-12
Updated: 2017-11-12
Packaged: 2019-02-01 09:39:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12702225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apliddell/pseuds/apliddell
Summary: There are some things needing clearing up between Sherlock and John. Irene helps. She's friendly like that.





	An Obvious Fact

Sorry about Karachi  
X

Saw you on telly with Dr Dishy. You’re looking well.   
X

You want to grow your hair out, though. That length doesn’t suit you. Looks like you’ve got about a dozen foreheads.   
X

Oh come on, you’re not back to ignoring me, are you?  
X

You saved my life. We can be mates now, can’t we?  
X

No more flirting. Scout’s honour.   
X

Are you surprised to learn I was a scout?  
X

Okay that was a lie.   
X

All that flirting stuff before was at gunpoint, by the way. I promise you I really am the most tremendous lesbian.   
X

And I know you’re spoken for.   
X

Dr and Mr Dishy-Holmes  
X

You’re a hyphenator. I can just feel it.   
X

Fine, be that way. I’ll try again soon.   
X

…

 

“There you are,” John applies my fresh nicotine patch with an encouraging but none too gentle slap on my upper arm. He follows it with a quick series of pats, for good measure. 

“Yes, thank you, John. It’s on,” slip my dressing gown up over my t shirt and rub my arm through it against the tingle John has left on my skin. 

“My pleasure,” John reclines back toward his end of the sofa, and I rise and make for my music stand. Difficult to look at him recently. Or touch him. Not sure why (well). “Ooh, taking requests?”

“Why not,” shoulder my violin and hold my bow poised and ready to be commanded. 

“That Bach thing you’ve been playing?” John hums a bit of it. 

“Partita Number One? Certainly.”

“Thanks,” John leans back with a little smile of contentment and shuts his eyes, and I am grateful to turn away. Can’t resist watching his reflection in the window, though. I suppose that’s why I always play facing the window. John’s socked left foot rocks gently in time to the music, and he smiles a private sort of smile as he listens. 

I don’t let the piece fade when it ends but go straight into my new composition. It isn’t that new; been working on it since New Year. John’s piece. His smile fades (something in me fades as well, watching it), and presently he sits up and reaches for his shoes. 

“I think I’ll go and er. Have you had your tea? Fancy a sandwich or something? Right okay, back in erm. In a bit.” John exits with a bit of a bang at the door, and I play louder over the sound of his feet on the stairs. 

Some time after the point at which it has become undeniable that John has not merely popped down to Speedy’s to get us tea, my phone gasps orgasmically. Grunt in annoyance and set down my violin. May as well change that stupid text alert, while it’s on my mind. Never thought I’d need to, but apparently here it’s come up again.

Downstairs there’s a clack as the front door lock sticks against John’s key, then his quick tempered rattle. Catch up my violin and play a loud and dramatic improvisation that leans too heavily on Ride of the Valkyries (don’t even like Wagner)(still terrifically dramatic)(John’s ignorance of these particulars is very convenient)(he’d laugh at that; still can’t say it). 

John’s grinning when he bursts through into the flat, laden with carrier bags of Thai food and a pack of beers under one arm. Play on if only because that is my self-appointed role in this little tableau, and I know that soon enough, John will tell me what to do next. 

“What a welcome,” he calls over the noise, going through to the kitchen to unburden himself. “Very flattering,” I quite start at that, because he’s suddenly right next to me and speaking nearly into my ear. Didn’t feel him come. “We’re all very impressed, Maestro, particularly the neighbours, I’m sure. Still, think you might stow the concerto for the moment and come and eat with me?” Pats my shoulder on the ‘me.’ Emphatic. 

Lower my bowing arm grudgingly (these petty obfuscations) and shrug, “You have a talent for epithets, John.”

“You have a talent for violin, Maestro. Come and eat.” John raises my dressing gown where it’s slipped down my shoulder, “Maybe put something on first. Your arm is all over gooseflesh. Is it cold in here?” Try unsuccessfully not to shiver, and John rubs the bare skin of my arm against the grain (delicious). Shiver harder (mortifying). Slip out from under him and bolt for my bedroom, still clutching my violin and bow. 

Drop my instrument on my bed and rummage in my drawer for warm clothes til I turn up wool socks and a rugby shirt I pinched from John. Obviously I am not cold, and I do not need warm clothes, but this way I can better conceal my traitorous autonomic reflexes. John will tease me about stealing his clothes, and I’ll pretend I think they look better on me. The stripes do make me look broad-shouldered. 

John is arranging containers on the coffee table when I rejoin him. Sink onto the sofa next to him, and he nudges a beer and a container of noodles toward me, “Here he is.” Lean forward to reach for the food, and John grasps my middle and index finger in his hand and tuts. “Just like I thought, still freezing. Hang on.” John rises from the sofa and busies himself laying a fire (so endearing)(not sure why)(wish he hadn’t let go my hand, but here’s the next best thing). The fragrant steam emanating from the takeaway containers makes my mouth water, so I pop the lid off my container of noodles and tuck in. 

John is positively smug when he steps away from the fire he’s laid and returns to the sofa, “Good? I haven’t tried those noodles before, but I know you like noodles.” 

Pull on my beer, “There’s really no need for all this fuss, John.”

“Well as I’d rather you didn’t freeze or starve, there sort of is,” John spoons curry over brown rice and bumps my elbow with his own. 

“Bit depressing to have a corpse on the sofa, I suppose.” 

John’s expression flickers, “And in my shirt, too. People would talk.”

“I will do my best not to preventably expire in any of your clothing, John. Wouldn’t want to embarrass you.”

“As little dying as you can manage, please.” John pats my knee firmly, “Though obviously, I wouldn’t let you.” 

“No, of course not. Clearly. Thank you.” Stretch out my feet toward the fire for toasting. There are little pinpricks of warmth starting in my toes. John was right, I suppose. I was cold. 

...

 

“It’s only going to get worse, if you ignore it, you know,” John says conversationally from behind the newspaper over breakfast. 

For a moment, I’m not sure he’s really spoken. Sounds like something he’d say in my mind palace, “Sorry?”

“Your cold,” John peeps out from behind the newspaper to raise his eyebrows at me meaningly. 

“Oh, that.” Pour myself a little more coffee, “I haven’t got a cold.” 

John makes truly excessive use of his eyebrow, “Mmhm. Your nose is doing something.”

Dab at my face with a napkin, “This is. Deliberate, actually.” 

John grins, “It’s a good look. Finish your tea.” 

Sip, “I will, but not because you tell me to.” 

John folds up the paper, “I’ve got to go to work now, Maestro. Back at six. I’ll bring you home some pho and some Lemsips. Maybe try and take it easy?”

Dip my toast into my egg cup, “Not because you tell me to.”

“I know, I know. You’re your own man,” John pats me on the shoulder and takes his breakfast things to the sink. “Finish your tea.”

 

…

 

I may be dying. How can I tell for sure?  
-SH 

You definitely aren’t. Does that help?

 

No.   
-SH 

 

After I’m dead, look after my violin. Don’t let Mycroft take it.   
-SH 

 

You’re not dying. 

 

You should come home and prevent it.   
-SH 

 

Right, well I will see you in about six hours. What’s this about? Has your cold got worse?

 

I don’t have a cold.   
-SH 

 

It’s probably pneumonia.   
-SH 

 

It’s probably a cold. What are your symptoms?

 

Feeling deathly. Sore everything, throat in particular. Can’t stop sneezing.   
-SH 

 

Any fever? That could be flu. I’ll examine you when I get home, if you like. You’re not dying. Take some paracetamol, have another cup of tea and go back to bed. 

 

You made me bin the thermometer after the thing with the ferret.   
-SH 

We agreed not to mention that ever again.

 

Well, that’s what happened to the thermometer.   
-SH 

 

Now we’ll never know if I’m dying.   
-SH 

 

You aren’t. Stop saying that. 

 

Fine, I’ll stay alive, if you insist.   
-SH 

 

I do. 

 

I’ll bring you some ice cream for your poor throat. What do you want?

 

Vanilla with the raspberry streak.   
-SH 

 

It’s done. 

 

Now leave me alone. I’m seeing proper patients. 

 

And that isn’t an invitation for you to come to the surgery. 

 

I hate it there. Everyone is very unreasonable.   
-SH 

 

Get some rest. See you soon. 

 

…

 

Shall we try this again?  
X

 

Are you watching me?  
-SH 

 

No. Why? Where are you?  
X

 

On my sofa. Where are you?  
-SH 

I probably shouldn’t say. Definitely nowhere I can see your sitting room. What an odd thing to say, like I’m peeping in your window.  
X

 

Hmm, I thought you knew I was ill.   
-SH 

 

Are you? Too bad. I’m sure Doctor Dishy will sort you out.   
X

Why do you call him that?   
-SH 

Are you jealous?  
X

 

Why would I be jealous? He hates you.   
-SH 

That’s true, actually.   
X

 

I know it is. Why do you call him that?  
-SH 

 

Just trying to be matey. Let’s be friends.   
X

 

Saying silly things in an effort to manipulate me is not friendly.   
-SH 

 

I suppose that’s true also.   
X

 

I didn’t really think of it as manipulation. I actually am trying to be matey.   
X

Why?  
-SH 

Let’s be friends.   
X

 

Why?  
-SH 

 

Because you know I’m alive and no one else does. Is that a good enough reason?  
X

 

Perhaps on your end.   
-SH 

 

And you saved my life. And you’re sort of funny.   
X

Those things are still on your end. You stabbed me with a hypodermic needle, beat me with a riding crop, broke into my flat, stole my coat, and ridiculed me in front of my horrible brother.   
-SH 

 

Why would I want to be friends?  
-SH 

 

I don’t know.   
X

 

I’m sorry.   
X

 

If you need a job doing or you want me to take a case, just tell me what it is and stop all of this. False mateyness is just insulting.   
-SH 

 

I really do just want to be friends.   
X

 

Well I suppose I mean that I hope you can forgive me.   
X

 

I wouldn’t have done those things, if I didn’t think M would kill me if I didn’t.   
X

 

You’re right. It’s stupid. I’ll leave you alone. Sorry.   
X

 

Why did you think it would be matey to call John ‘Doctor Dishy’?  
-SH 

 

Isn’t it obvious?  
X

 

No. You’re a lesbian. Why would you say something like that about a man?  
-SH 

 

You fancy John, and you like talking about him. I thought it would get you to answer.   
X

 

Has he asked you out yet?  
X

 

He’s not gay.   
-SH 

 

Oh poppet.   
X

 

Ask him.   
X

Don’t call me poppet.   
-SH 

 

Ask him!  
X

 

He really seems like he’d be a try-hard in bed. That’d be good for you. You’re so wound up.   
X

That is more than enough speculation, thank you.   
-SH 

 

Told you it was matey.   
X

Shut up.   
-SH 

 

Ask him.   
X

…

 

The sound of the front door banging wakes me, and I listen without opening my eyes, to John’s ascending footfall (carrying something)(the promised provisions, no doubt). 

John struggles a moment with the door to the flat, then steps in, “Three stops on your account, your highness, but I suppose that needn’t mean you might help with the door.”

Sit up and lean over the back of sofa to watch John into the flat, “The proper form of address is ‘your majesty.’”

John laughs and brings the things into the sitting room. He sets a paper bag of takeaway cartons on the table and pulls a packet of nicotine patches from one of the carrier bags still dangling from the crook of his elbow, “First things first.” John tears open the packet, drops to one knee, and applies a patch when I present my arm. “There you are Maestro.”

“All these pet names, John. My name is Sherlock, if you’ve forgotten.”

John only smiles indulgently and sets the rest of the bags on the coffee table, “How’s your throat?”

“Hurts,” pout a little, because it will entertain John. 

John’s indulgent smile broadens a bit, and he extracts a digital thermometer and a packet of sanitary sleeves from one of the bags. He deftly slips a sleeve onto the thermometer, “Sit up, please, and open your mouth for me.” I obey, and John pops the thermometer into my mouth. It beeps a moment later, and John pulls it out and looks at the display, “A tiny bit feverish. Best let it burn off on its own, I think. We’ll give you some lozenges for your throat instead of the paracetamol. The fever shouldn’t be too uncomfortable at the moment, mm?” He presses a cool hand to my forehead, then cups my jaw. My face heats even more under his fingers, and I turn my head to hide my expression in my shoulder. John hastily drops his hands, “Sorry, I suppose my hands must be a bit cold.” 

“It’s fine.”

John coughs, “I think I fancy watching a movie tonight. How stroppy will you be about that?”

Toss my head, “I am never stroppy.”

“‘Course you aren’t,” John gets up and hangs his coat on the hook near the door, then crosses the room to rifle through his DVD collection, “Requests?”

“Oh any of your standbys will do, I’m sure. The tv programme about the guy with the hair and that magic blue torch or that film about murder in the country with the cute detective who looks like you and acts like me. Or the thing in the desert with the shiny chap who’s in love with the little dustbin.” Stretch out on the sofa, then hastily withdraw my feet and leave precisely half the cushions for John. 

John laughs heartily at my descriptions, “Have you ever heard of Mystery Science Theater?”

“No. Is that also a film?”

“Never mind. Murder in the country?” He waggles the case at me. 

“Fine, just as you like.” Consider the pho and the ice cream and plump for the ice cream. 

“Dinner first,” John says sternly, taking the spot next to me. Roll my eyes and pointedly take one bite of the ice cream before swapping it for the pho. 

John opens his own food, “Warm enough?”

“Hmm? Me or the food?”

“You,” John slips one hand under the sleeve of my dressing gown. “No gooseflesh. Warm enough, then.” 

“Yes. Thank you, John. Warm enough.” 

 

…

 

Startle awake when my phone gasps on the coffee table to find that I’m slumped against John’s shoulder. Under me, John is tense, and his left hand grasps his knee and trembles anyway. 

“Go on,” without looking at his face, I can picture the flicker of guilt that passes over John’s features at the sound of my voice. Sit up, “I know you want to. Go on, then.” We gaze at each other for a silent moment, then John’s mouth tilts mulishly. He leans forward and picks my phone up from the coffee table. It gasps again in his hands, as if responding to his touch. He swipes it open and looks down at the texts. “Read them out.”

John clears his throat, “‘Is Doctor Dishy looking after you?’ and ‘Have you asked him yet?’” He shakes his head and looks up at me, “I don’t understand.” 

Wet my lips, “Scroll up.” 

He does so and reads silently for a moment, “I. Sherlock.” He tosses the phone back to me, “Just. Just tell me what you want me to know.”

Sigh, “Oh for the love of…” trail off and spot the can of yellow spray paint that I got from Raz sat on my desk. Rise from the sofa, pick up the can, and spray in huge letters on the wall I AM GaY, adding a tail to the smiley face already there to form the ‘a.’ Look back at John and pointedly underline ‘GaY.’ “Got it?”

John sheepishly sets the phone on the coffee table and joins me next to the wall, “Yeah, you make your point.” He looks at the wall, “Mrs Hudson’s going to kill you.” 

Shrug, “I think it looks better that way.”

John nods, “It does, yeah.” He tugs the can out of my hand, “Could I just…” John adds, ME TOO :) in slightly smaller letters. He sets the can down and clears his throat, “Er. You told Irene that I’m not, so. I thought you’d. Probably got the er. The wrong end of the stick.”

“It. happens occasionally.” John laughs nervously. His face is suddenly difficult to look at. Sneak a glance, but it’s like looking into a light, “In fairness to me, you also told her that.” 

John nods, “Yeah, I did tell her that. Yes, I did. Erm. At the time. Er.” He shrugs. “You know. You know how it is. I was still. Well. Christ.” He presses the heels of his hands into his eyes. “It’s gone one, and I’ve got work tomorrow. I should get up to bed. We can. I’ll see you in the morning, yeah?” His hand flexes when he drops it to his side. Triumph is wilting and shriveling inside me.

Oh John, no. We were so close. “Of course. Good night, John.”

He pats my shoulder on his way past up to his room, and I stand for a moment as I listen to John’s retreat and stare at the words we painted, bright against the wallpaper, still moist and shining and new. 

Cross to my music stand, lift my violin out of its case and just cradle it a moment before I raise it to my shoulder and begin to play John’s piece. Shut my eyes and play it through twice, the notes buzzing in my fingers, my chest, my jaw. When I open my eyes again, John is standing just behind me, reflected in the window I’m facing. 

Set my violin down and turn to him, “It’s you. It’s for you. Always for you, John. You didn’t know, did you?”

His eyes are wet. He shakes his head, “I didn’t know.” 

“I love you,” we say it in unison and laugh together as well. 

John steps forward, lands one hand on my waist (don’t even try not to shiver this time), upturns his smiling face and brushes my nose with his, “I think I know this bit.”

“Then why aren’t you kissing me?” Catch hold of his other hand, and pull that to my waist as well (our hips are aligned)(can feel his chest rise against me)(if I were very very still and quiet, might I feel his heart as well?).

“You seem to have this seduction thing in hand,” John wets his lips, and I fancy I can already feel the moisture on mine (can feel his breath on my mouth, can almost taste it). “Thought I’d let you get on with it.” John dances his fingers up my back as he speaks, strokes my neck, sinks his hand into my hair, and it’s too delicious. I’m going boneless and breathless, and I’m going to shake apart or melt into his arms or float up and bob against the ceiling, so I kiss him, and he keeps me whole in his soft hands and under his sweet, warm mouth. 

…

 

“Comfy?” John slips his hand under my (his) pyjama top and strokes my shoulder (seems nearly as hungry for my skin as I am for his)(!). 

“Mmm perfect, John,” hug him and kiss his collarbone (nearest bit of bare John I can reach). 

John sighs, and I rise on his chest when he does, “Good. Me as well.” He switches off the lamp on his night table, “Good night, Sherlock. See you in the morning.”

“First thing,” I agree. In the starlight that’s trickled in through John’s tiny bedroom window, I see him smile. “I think I shall come into work with you tomorrow, John.”

John laughs through his nose (can feel it in my cheek against his chest and as a whoosh of breath in my hair), “Oh shall you?”

“Mmm, lots of ground to recover.” On my shoulder, John’s left hand gives the smallest twitch (that doesn’t do)(we must move past it). “I might be your stethoscope. Or your white coat. Would you like that, John?”

John laughs again, “Generous of you, Sherlock. I’d love it.” 

“You love me,” half-shy, half-giddy, because it’s true (!)(!!!). 

“I do love you,” John’s voice is so tender (like his hands on my skin or his lips against mine) that I hide my face in his chest for a moment. 

“I love you, John,” giddy again because I may say it aloud now. 

John kisses my hair, “I know, Sherlock. I know you do.” He hugs me a little closer, “Now shut up, and go to sleep.” Giggle into his chest (embarrassing)(don’t care) and with all this joy singing in my veins, I rather wish I might stay up and gabble to him. But he needs his rest, and it’s no matter. There will be time enough tomorrow and the day after. And I know my John will hear me, whatever I have to tell him. 

“Good night, John.”

John gives me one last kiss, “Good night, Sherlock.”


End file.
